


most best, most dearest

by asmenuke



Category: King Lear - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 12:56:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14915777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asmenuke/pseuds/asmenuke
Summary: A look into a conversation between Cordelia and her new intended, after the events of Act I Scene 1.





	most best, most dearest

**Author's Note:**

> Saw King Lear about a week ago, amidst being in England and staring at a ton of these old stained glass windows. Really just an excuse for me to write a bit of romance and a Cordelia with some steel in her spine (which people don't seem to see in Act I? What's that about?)
> 
> Title from Lear, of course, and any dialogue you may recognize is also from there.

Cordelia had done her absolute damndest to not show any kind of preference between France and Burgundy. Both were good men, fine men, with a duchy and a kingdom that were equal in benefits for the daughter of a king. Burgundy had made her laugh, and entreated her to call him by his Christian name. He had spoken little of his duchy aside from the pleasure his vineyards brought him, and the gardens he would create for Cordelia. His eyes were dark and his mouth was wide and given easily to laughter. Cordelia thought sometimes that she could get an awful lot done with Burgundy at her side.

France had spoken to her of his kingdom, with a soft voice, and talked to her of court. He spoke of the rich fabrics she would be entitled to, but also of hunts he would take her on, and the freedom she could expect as queen. He did not make her laugh often, certainly not as often as Burgundy did. He showed her respect, and from what Cordelia could tell, he always did his duty. His eyes were the pale blue of the horizon on a clear day, and his mouth looked like once upon a time it had been given to smiling.

What shall Cordelia speak? Love and be silent. 

France, it seemed, knew this imperative before Cordelia herself did. Their walks through the gardens, with Goneril and Albany or Regan and Cornwall serving as chaperones, were quiet and cautious. Sometimes he would talk about the gardens back in France, and once did he offer her a rose. Burgundy had bruised his fingers making her an entire circlet of roses.

She had expected that if Burgundy made her an offer, she would accept, for she did dearly love to laugh. Yet it was Burgundy whose laughter turned to silence at her lack of a dowry.

It was France, soft and quiet France, pale blond-brown curls under his circlet and soft mouth tight with anger, that spoke in her defense. It was this king who kept her hand tucked into his elbow, and covered her delicate, ring-laden hand with his own as Goneril and Regan spit their venom.

“Let your study be to content your lord, who has received you at fortune’s alms,” Regan forced out, her voice high and reedy in a way the suggested she was trying to sneer but was still too shocked by recent events to manage it. “This is what you get, for failing to obey our father.”

Under her hand, France’s arm tensed.

This was the man who spoke of the duties of ruling a kingdom as courting talk. This was the man whose Christian name she only learned from the Earl of Kent. This was the man who stood before her father, and Burgundy, and declared her a treasure of a girl and a dowry within herself.

Cordelia had known she could be queen. Cordelia had never expected to be France’s queen.

“Well you may prosper,” Cordelia managed.

“Come, my fair Cordelia,” said France, and drew Cordelia out of the throne room. He tugged his arm away from her, but only enough that when her hand slipped away, he caught it in his own hand.

They made it halfway to the cloisters before the day’s events hit her, and Cordelia let out a ragged breath somewhat close to a sob. 

“Cordelia!” France exclaimed, turning to face her. His eyes were wide, and he seemed ready to speak more before Cordelia waved him off with her free hand. She took a deep breath, wishing she had a veil to hide behind while she regained her composure.

“I am sorry, majesty,” she said, trying to control the tremble in her voice, “It has been a trying day.”

“Please,” France said, stepping closer to her. She realized they had not let go of each other’s hands. He shifted on his feet, blocking her from the sight of any passing servants. In the weak light of the window, his eyes were bright and the mouth she once thought had been inclined to smiling was drawn tense and unhappy.

“I am not good with soft words,” he admitted after a moment, and Cordelia let out a half-wild laugh.

“You were good enough earlier,” she said unthinkingly, then flinched, waiting for Goneril or Regan to appear out of thin air and chastise her for her lack of forethought.

“…I wasn’t thinking clearly,” France said, his posture softening incrementally, “I am… not usually given to that kind of expression. I am no good with comfort. But Cordelia…”

She waited.

“My dear lady, I can promise that you will never have cause to fear that your honesty will make me admire you any less.”

Cordelia stared at him.

“It has been a trying day,” France admitted, almost sheepish, “I thought you would choose Burgundy.”

Cordelia continued to stare. It took a larger than usual amount of willpower to close her mouth.

“I understand this is not what you wanted,” France began, and finally Cordelia had access to enough anger to cut him off, laughing at her own foolishness.

“I did not want anything that happened today,” she said, her laughter more painful than anything else. “But I am glad that even in these circumstances, I did not lose your regard for me.”

She had always known, in retrospect, that he held her in high regard. Goneril, when she was a child, used to talk about how much Cordelia resembled their mother, a strong woman who Cordelia had never known, who died when Cordelia was near two, taking their younger brother with her. Goneril would talk about how their father looked at her and how she looked back at him.

Cordelia considered this may have been the way France looked at her.

“You could never lose my regard, fair Cordelia,” he said quietly. Servants passed them by, lords and ladies too, but Cordelia barely noticed the way they stared at her, disgraced princess and true born king.

“I am glad to know it, majesty,” she said quietly, “My regard for you has only increased since knowing you.”

He smiled, and as though the heavens wanted to make a point, the sun came out. His brown-blond hair was suddenly haloed in gold comparable to the circlet he wore, and he stepped forwards, tugging her hand as they continued down the corridor.

“Thibault,” he said quietly, “You are to be my wife, Cordelia. My Queen. There is no reason when it is the two of us, to call me ‘majesty.’”

“Thibault,” Cordelia said softly, “Then let us be wed, and I shall call you that whenever possible.”

There were worse things, she thought, than to be married to someone who held her in high regard. Someone too clever to waste time on circlets of roses and instead gifted her a kingdom. Someone who valued honesty over laughter and pretty words.

Cordelia could work with that.


End file.
